When it Rains
by Eirina
Summary: "Malfoy please," the tears stream down her cheeks, pooling at her neck and tickling his lips like salty feathers, "please don't do this." "I'm sorry Granger," he grips the material of her knickers, and with one tug the flimsy cotton rips off her hips, leaving her bare under him. "But I have to." Dhr, dubcon


**A/N A lot of my old followers will recognize, and remember, this story. I published it years ago, and then changed accounts, and basically my stuff disappeared. Most of it was crap, anyway, but I wanted to rewrite this because it was one of my favourites and people are wondering why it disappeared off of Best of 2009 Dramione Awards, over at dhr_archive.**

**So without further ado, here is the newly revised When it Rains.**

**P.S. Thank you to my amazing beta, KCI47**

"_**Malfoy please," the tears stream down her cheeks, pooling at her neck and tickling his lips like salty feathers, "please don't do this." **_

"_**I'm sorry Granger," he grips the material of her knickers, and with one tug the flimsy cotton rips off her hips, leaving her bare under him. "But I have to."**_

If anyone has ever had their hair pulled straight out of its roots; if they have ever had the soles of their bare feet scraped, repeatedly, against rough concrete and sharp stones- they would know what she's suffering through.

The Death Eaters are everywhere, pulling and pushing her like she's a wave in the ocean, shoving her until she falls onto the hard ground, and then kicking her in punishment to satiate their barbaric need for blood and pain.

"Walk faster, mudblood whore." Hands grab at her tangled hair and pull her up off her feet.

"You're hurting me!" she yells, trying to pry the thick fingers away from her head.

They don't listen. They don't even bother to lift her up. The Death Eater, with his hand firmly wrapped around her hair, pulls her along the hard ground, while her back cries out in pain as it scrapes against the floor. She can't do anything except stare ahead of her, at the mass of masked men and women following at her heels.

They had taken her by surprise, four or five of them, (she isn't sure of the number, and she doubts it would have mattered had there been twenty or just two) and within seconds she was cornered and outnumbered, exhausted from spending the entire morning fighting her way through countless waves of Death Eaters and Trolls alike.

Hermione shuts her eyes, trying to keep the memory at bay- but it continues to hit her, like an iron mace, over and over again- the clear image of Ron Weasley being dragged through the halls of Hogwarts, screaming for her to run. And she had run, as fast as she could.

They had eventually found her fighting alongside Katie Bell. They had been outmatched, and the fight was over within minutes. She isn't sure where Katie is, but Hermione has a feeling she won't last long enough to find out.

"You know where's she's going to?" Hermione can dimly hear her captives conversing behind her.

"Don't know. Hopefully we'll get a chance to play with this one before the Lord offs her."

"Doesn't matter if she's dead; so long as she's still fresh, it feels the same to me."

"What? You mean she'll still be cold and dry?"

"Fuck off."

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut. This is all just a dream; a stupid, terrible nightmare. In a moment she'll wake up in her little bed and hear Molly calling her down for breakfast.

"Maybe we'll get her as a present, since she's Potter's lackey and all."

"Bastard probably got into her knickers before us," the Death Eater spits at the ground, "either way; she'll go to someone more important."

"Shame, really. But at least we've got plenty more slags to use."

"Shut up, now, we're here."

Hermione hears a heavy door being pushed open, and suddenly she's being pulled into a blindingly bright chamber.

She twists her head to the side. There are even more of them here, surrounding her.

Her captors drag her into the middle of the room and dump her onto her back.

"Rise, mudblood, and look at your Lord." The Death Eater releases her hair and prods her hard with his boot.

Hermione pushes herself onto her elbows. Her entire body, from head to toes, is screaming in pain, but she wills it away. She won't show her weakness to him. She'd never allow Voldemort the simple pleasure of seeing her flinch.

"This is Potter's mudblood?" Voldemort addresses the Death Eater that had taken her.

"This is she, my Lord."

Voldemort's just as hideous as Hermione had imagined him. Pale and serpent-like; and very powerful. Beneath the sinewy, white skin, Hermione can sense the magical power pooling in his veins like poison.

"And why did I not get the one I asked for?"

"We can't find the red head, my Lord."

Voldemort sighs. "I ask for one simple thing, just one thing-"

"My Lord, this mudblood is important to Potter. He'll come for her."

"And I'm supposed to trust my entire faith to you?" Voldemort stands suddenly, his robe billowing around his feet like a black curtain.

"He won't come," Hermione sneers, drawing her shoulders up defiantly. "He's smarter than you'll ever be, and damn more powerful." She doesn't meet his eyes, she refuses to. Hermione knows what he'll see in them- fear.

Voldemort sighs again. "Yaxley, if you please?" He waves his hand in her direction.

The Death Eater, Yaxley, approaches her and swings his hand across her face. Hermione's neck snaps to the side on impact.

"You do not address the Lord, mudblood whore." He grips her chin, "_Ever!_ Do you understand?"

She glares at the mask in answer.

"I think I know what to do with it while we wait for the boy to come." Voldemort's thin lips spread out into a sardonic smile. "The mudblood will be delivered as a present to one of my followers."

Her breath catches in her throat.

"Dolohov," Voldemort barks.

A black figure slips past the crowd and stands in front of her.

"Take the mudblood to the tower room."

"My Lord?"

"Did I stutter? I said- take the mudblood to the tower room," he enunciates.

"Yes my Lord," Dolohov paces towards her and drags her up by her shoulders.

"Walk mudblood."

Her feet are bleeding, and when she looks around she can see her bloody footprints leaving a crimson trail behind her. Hermione shivers as they make their way up flights upon flights of stairs.

She racks her mind, trying to remember every Death Eater, every rank, trying to figure out who she is at the mercy of until they kill her off. Either way, no matter who it is, she won't go down without a fight. She owes it to Harry. She owes it to Ron…

Dolohov stills her in front of a large, wooden door. He pulls off his mask and sneers at her. "It's a shame you have to go to the stupid little prick, but maybe once he's finished with you we can all have a turn." He sidles up closer to her and all she can smell is pungent filth and old, dry blood.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you mudblood?"

"When the Ministry finds you, Dolohov, you're going to drown in your own blood, and die screaming for mercy like a stuck pig. It will be a coward's death, and I'm going to _enjoy it_!" she hisses in retaliation.

Dolohov's face screws up into a grimace and he quickly shoves the door open and pushes her inside, unceremoniously.

She lands with a thud onto the cold tiles and her body screams in objection.

"The Dark Lord sends his greetings, and offers Potter's mudblood as a gift for the night." Dolohov grunts. "Have fun reminiscing about the old days, Malfoy, we all know that's the only thing you're going to do tonight." He chuckles, and with one last longing look her way, he steps back into the darkness of the corridor and the door slams behind her again.

Hermione lays her face against the floor, eyes shut and silently chanting 'it's only a dream' over and over again. But when she opens them she's still there, in the small, icy room, staring at the one person she'd never thought she would see again.

"Granger?"

She recoils from the voice and folds into herself. She doesn't want to see him, not after all this time. She'd hated him; hated him for screwing Hogwarts up; hated him for helping in Dumbledore's death. She hated him for being a coward and running away from his mistakes. The last time she'd seen him was on a wanted poster. After all the years of hatred and bullying and insults, Hermione had hoped, had even prayed, that Malfoy wouldn't turn into his father.

When she opens her eyes she sees Lucius Malfoy reincarnated. His hair is still blond and abnormal, cropped at the base of his neck and slicked back save for a few strands sticking up by his forehead. His eyes are grey and cold and calculating, but the dark circles underneath them betray his weakness, and she's glad about that, because it means Malfoy isn't as flawless and strong as he'd like her to think.

He slides up from his chair in the corner and steps towards her.

She picks her chin up defiantly. "Don't you dare come near me Malfoy," she snaps. "Don't you dare!"

"You're hurt," he remarks, glancing at the torn skin on her feet. "Let me put you on the bed, Granger."

She jerks back and onto her backside, sliding away from him.

His eyes shoot to the floor. "I didn't mean it like that…"

"Leave me alone," she flinches as her feet touch the floor. "Please." The whisper comes out pleadingly and soft and Hermione regrets it because already he's advancing.

"Let me help, Granger."

An arm comes around her knees and she flails in shock and repulsion, pushing him away with her fists.

"Leave me alone!"  
Malfoy's other arm comes around her chest and heaves her up. She lands a smack to his jaw and he stumbles. Hermione half slides to the ground but he catches her again and lifts her squirming body off the floor.

She's screaming as much as she can manage when he sets her onto the soft, satin material of the duvet, and she doesn't stop screaming until he's ten feet away from her and backed into a corner.

"I'm only trying to help you!" he snaps, nursing his hurt jaw. Her knuckles tingle from the hard contact and turn red. She rubs them against the coldness of the bed spread. She's trying to take in as much of the room as she can, trying to figure a way out of this mess, when up he gets again.

"Don't!" she presses her back into the wooden headboard and cringes when it connects against her sore scalp.

He sits on the very edge of the bed, right at the bottom, testing the water.

When she doesn't move, he edges closer until she can feel the warmth of his back resting against her thigh.

"Malfoy-"

"You know, Granger; you know you're not the only one being tortured tonight." He rubs his palms against his cotton trousers, shuddering as a cold wind blows in from the open window.

He studies a spot on the floor, fingers suddenly digging into his leg.

"You know you're not supposed to be my gift, you're supposed to be my punishment." He lifts his gaze off the ground but he doesn't meet her eye.

"If I don't… If I don't do this tonight, come tomorrow he'll kill me. He'll kill you regardless Granger, but I can still save myself." He gets up to shut the window, jerks the curtain to the side and covers the last sight she'll probably ever have of the outside world.

"Your life isn't more important than mine, Granger, at least not to me." He perches on the bed again and slowly eases a hand up her leg.

Hermione buries her face in the pillows. "Please, Malfoy!"

"Please what? You know there's nobody coming to save us from this hell hole. There's nothing you can offer me now except my life."

He squeezes his eyes shut and Hermione realizes it's just as disgusting and repellent to him as it is to her. But that doesn't make it right, she thinks.

"I won't kiss you- that would make it seem more real. I won't kiss you…" He whispers, eyes locked on the pulse at her neck. _Thump! Thump! Thump! _She can hear her heart pounding in her ears, like a tribal drum. _Thump! Thump! Thump! _And she wishes he would do something instead of staring at her like that, because Hermione is sure if her heart pounds like this for another second she'll go into cardiac arrest.

"Close your eyes." He hooks a finger in the first button of her top and it pops open easily.

She jerks suddenly, like a crazed animal, and drives her nails deep into his hand until she can feel the liquid of his blood.

Malfoy grabs her wrists and drives her arms above her head and into the mattress. "This will go a lot smoother if you don't do _that_."

"So I should just lie here and let you rape me?" she screams in retaliation, pushing against his iron grip.

Malfoy pulls the bedside drawer open and finds his wand. Pointing it at her wrists he mumbles an incantation and suddenly there's a cold sensation of bands of energy wrapping around her hands and holding her against the headboard.

"You can push against them if you like, Granger, but it'll only hurt you." With that he pops open another button.

Every time she so much as moves the magic bonds send a ripple of electric current shooting through her arms, making her toes curl into the bed.

Malfoy glances at her rolled up feet, shakes his head. "I told you not to move, Granger." She thanks God he doesn't make an innuendo.

"Shut your eyes."

So she does. When she can feel the skin of her stomach pucker in the night air she peeks down and sees her shirt is already propped open to the side, and Malfoy is looking everywhere but at her bare chest. Tears of embarrassment, and then frustration, cloud her vision in mist. If she could only move her arms to cover up her dignity she would have. But she can't move her arms, and the rest of her body is frozen in shock and fear. Not fear of Malfoy, but fear of what her life will change into in twenty-four hours.

"Can you put the blanket over me," she whispers, "please?" _Please _has never sounded more bitter on her tongue, but she has to try and dig up his humanity somewhere.

"What's the point?" he replies, stonily. "I'm going to have to see you naked anyway." He jerks his gaze to her smudged face, down to her pulse, to her chest, suddenly fixed on her nipples, prominent and hard from the cool breeze. Then he glances away and roots his gaze onto his hands, laying palm down against his legs again, like he doesn't quite know where to put them now.

Hermione tries again to move her arms and the electricity doubles in volts and instead of her feeling a sharp prickle she's now doubled over in agony as the current convulses through her body, hitting the core of her abdomen like a solid fist.

Again and again it shocks her, working its way through her very bones until she's no longer defiant and strong but screeching for a relief from the pain. It's only ten minutes later, when a layer of sweat clings to her body and her throat is sore and hoarse, while she's panting against the already wet sheets, that the electricity dims and abruptly comes to a stop.

Malfoy pulls a hand through his hair and musses it up from his skull. It sticks up in odd places, giving him the appearance of an adolescent boy rather than a stoic man.

Hermione clenches her legs together when she feels his hand brush over her skirt and under, tracing the elastic line of her white briefs, and a shadow of a smirk washes over his face, as if to say 'I knew she'd be wearing prim underwear,' and she feels like spitting in his face, as undignified as it may be, because she hates seeing him look so smug.

He finds her eyes again and this time he locks onto her glare.

"I told you to close your eyes."

"No. I want to watch the last bit of humanity leave your soul, Malfoy."

Malfoy counteracts, "It left me a long time ago." He slowly peels the skirt down, past her hip bones- prominent from too many missed meals and too much running, _always running_- and he adds, as an afterthought, "Hermione…"

She can't do anything but watch while her skirt travels down, down, until it's gathered around her ankles in a heap of brown cotton.

He watches her face, but even through the mess of dirt and blood streaks, tear tracks and the hint of saliva, he can see she won't crack. She doesn't glare at him, only stares, watching, calculating. She knows she can't stop him, but she's going to make him know Hermione Granger does not break.

Not for Voldemort, not for cowards, and certainly not for Draco Malfoy.

The skirt falls on top of her discarded shirt, and there goes her protection, sitting on the floor where she can't get to it.

It's hard to keep the screaming locked inside, because Hermione really, _really _doesn't want this to happen. The last thing she'd ever want is to have Malfoy's hands on her, touching her, especially when she's strapped to the bed like a lab rat. But it could be worse, she admits. Malfoy is a whole lot better than any of the Death Eaters Hermione knows.

This is when she decides to try one last time to reach him- because she's sure there must be some part of him still prone to pity or kindness, even if he's never shown it too her before.

When he traces a finger against her hip bone she squeezes out a few fat tears and lets them slide down her cheeks slowly, making sure he sees them. She doesn't want to appear weak, but maybe she has to.

He leans down then, ignoring her wet eyes, and breathes against her stiff neck. "Close your eyes, Granger," he pleads, and she wonders if he's closed his. She can feel him cracking, as well. She's finding the thin spot in the ice, now all she has to do is shove against it a little harder and break it open.

"Malfoy please," the tears stream down her cheeks, pooling at her neck and tickling his lips like salty feathers, "please don't do this."

For added effect, Hermione tries to cry. She's not a good actress, however, and when she tries to sob it comes out as a bone dry cough, and her throat only burns worse. It helps though, and she can feel him shaking.

Hermione is starting to think maybe, just maybe, this might actually work. But her stomach drops to her feet when she feels his index finger slip under the waistband of her underwear. She's wrong. There is nothing kind in Malfoy, not anymore.

The pragmatic part of her brain is trying to woo her into positive thinking.

'_It could be worse.' _It says. '_Malfoy isn't going to make you feel pain just for the hell of it.' _And then, '_Malfoy is being forced into this just like you are.' _It finishes.

Like always, the pragmatic side is right, of course.

"I'm sorry Granger," he grips the material of her knickers, and with one tug the flimsy cotton rips off her hips, leaving her bare under him. "But I have to."

The elastic band snaps against her legs and slithers down. He gingerly picks it up from under her and tosses it to the side. She doesn't know if he's looking at her _there, _or if he's even looking at her at all, because Hermione refuses to open her eyes. Realization thuds against her head like a cricket ball, hitting her repeatedly until her brain is thumping like a rabbit's tail, making her dizzy. Tonight she'll be humiliated, tomorrow she'll be tortured. Hermione's never wished for death before, until now. Now she begs for it to come and fetch her and take her away and make the entire world go black and forgotten like it never existed in the first place; like _she_ never existed.

She feels his fingers thrum against her rib cage and flattens her body, trying to get away from his touch. Hermione bites into her cheek when he slides his thumb across her nipple.

"What are you doing?" she hisses, eyes still shut as if glued in place. "You don't have to foreplay, Malfoy, just get it over with."

"I'm trying to make it easier."

"And I'm trying to make it stop!"

He doesn't respond, simply cups her right breast in his hand and rolls her nipple again.

An array of emotions zigzag across her mind. She wishes he would just do it, make it painful and horrid, because she knows if he tries to be gentle she might end up enjoying it. Hermione hates him, but she knows her body will react regardless. And that's far worse to her than being raped.

He presses his lips into her neck, collecting the beading sweat onto his tongue. She's disgusted and aroused and terrified and on fire. He nuzzles into her neck and drags his mouth, which is surprisingly warm, lower; along her shoulder blades, across her collar bones, and down the concave of her chest. He removes his fingers from her breast and replaces them with his lips. Hermione cranes her head to the side and pushes her face into the pillow, trying to drown out any noise that might slip out.

She's crying now, really crying, half from pleasure and half from guilt- and Hermione doesn't know which one is worse.

"Why are you crying?" he finally asks, lifting his head off her chest to stare at her, a mixture of confusion and arousal in his grey eyes.

"You're hurting me," she lies.

"No, I'm not," he whispers back. He grabs her chin and twists her head towards him. "Hermione…"

"Don't call me that!" she screams, drawing away from his touch like it burns her. And it does. His skin burns her; everywhere it touches he burns her. She can feel the warmth growing somewhere inside of her, and she's never been more frightened, not even in the midst of war.

"I don't want to force you," he trails his hands down her sides and digs his fingers into her hipbones.

"So you'd rather have me enjoy it? Don't you see how _sick _that is?" she jerks against the bonds again, momentarily forgetting the painful effect.

Once again she's jerking in agony against the duvet. Malfoy tries to calm her down, presses his one hand against her chest and touches the other against her cheek.

After a while she's left a writhing, sweaty blob. She's cold all over except where he touches his hands.

"Granger?"  
She nods her head, but even the slightest movements leave her skull throbbing and her throat dry. She gulps in air and it helps to cool down her mouth. Her tongue feels like sandpaper and is as heavy as a paperweight.

"I'll remove the bonds if you lay still." He runs a hand across her forehead, feels the unnatural heat. Maybe he's worried about her, she thinks ironically.

"Do you promise to lay still?"

She would laugh if she could. The fact that he's going to trust her to be obedient and unmoving while he forces her into sex- she always thought Malfoy was clever. Apparently she was wrong.

But she nods anyway, because what does she have to lose except electrocution?

Through the dim moonlight Malfoy is almost translucent as he fixes his wand to her wrists and whispers an incantation. He's not beautiful, just different. It scares her, because she can see a bit of herself in him- the stubborn strength of survival, the will to stay alive.

She feels the magic unwrapping from her arms but she doesn't register it, because suddenly a plan has taken flight in her mind.

She knows she's not making it out of here alive. And she refuses to wish Harry was coming, because he's the only thing she has left, and she doesn't want him to risk everything for her.

But there's one thing she can do. One thing she has to do.

"Draco?"

He looks up, startled by the sound of his name. She's relieved and worried at the same time- because what if he says no?  
"Draco," she starts again. "I'll do whatever you want of me. I won't fight, or kick or scream. Do whatever you have to." Her mind is spinning, trying to find the perfect words to describe her plan without sending him scurrying off into the corner.

"I'll do this on one condition." She pauses, looks at him. He doesn't flee and she carries on. "I need you to do me a favour. I need you to find out what happened to Ron- where he is, if he's even still alive."

He squirms on the bed but nods his head, anyway. "Okay."

"And I need you to tell Harry." She sucks in air when she sees the sudden rejection in his eyes, and goes on as quick as she can. "I need you to tell Harry what happened to Ron, and I need you to tell him what's happened to me." It's a little thing she can do for him now, the only thing. Harry will need closure. So will her parents, and Molly and Arthur- Ginny, George, Bill, and the list goes on. It's the one thing she can do for them now, to set their minds to rest.

"Please, Malfoy?" she whispers, eyes pleading with him, "I promise I'll lay still." And she means it, because no matter how revolting it is, Hermione knows she'd let the entire Death Eater army rape her if it meant giving peace of mind to her friends and family.

"How am I even supposed to get to him?" he mutters. "It's not as if I can march out of here and find Potter. I'm just as much a prisoner here as you are."

"You don't have to do it now, Malfoy. After the war."

"And if Potter loses the war?"

She stares at the thin, flimsy curtain. She can faintly see the stars, outlines of trees. She'll never see it again- the colours and sights and sounds and smells of nature. She's okay with it, though. It's that she'll never see Harry or Ron or her parents again that really bothers her.

"Granger," he snaps, drawing her attention again. "What if Potter loses?"

"Then it won't matter, anyway." But he won't lose, she thinks. He's not going to lose.

"Fine." It's so soft it's almost inaudible, but she hears it like a shout, piercing her ears and filling her with warmth- with hope, that maybe she can help Harry after all.

Not one to go back on her word, Hermione wiggles down onto her back, presses her head against the pillows and says, "Well?"

His brow is knitted with apprehension.

"It's okay…" she mumbles, reaching out to touch his hand. When he doesn't jerk away, Hermione pulls it towards her and lays it on her shoulder. Draco stares at her, mirroring her embarrassment. But Hermione knows the only way she's going to get the message to Harry is if Malfoy sleeps with her, and right now she wonders if she'll have to make the first move.

It's no longer barbaric rape- at least, she's consenting to it, even though it may be forced- and that settles her conscience a bit when she presses her lips to his index finger, then moves her mouth to another. She doesn't know exactly what to do, and Malfoy isn't helping either, just sitting on the bed with his mouth hanging open like a guppy.

"Have you done this before?" she asks, tracing his knuckles with her thumb.

He gulps, and she's oddly satisfied he feels just as disconcerted as she does. "Once or twice."

Hermione frowns and drops his hand. "Then why don't you do it?" she snaps back. Not only does he want her to sleep with him _consensually, _but he expects her to instigate the sex as well?

She glares at him and folds her arms.

"Well?" she asks dryly, for the second time.

He clears his throat, stretches his fingers out and begins the process again. He runs the pads of his fingers down her arm, and along the underside of her breast. His hands are harder now, rougher pressure more than feathery touches.

She expects him to slide a thumb along her peak again- instead he tweaks it, pinching it to an almost painful height then releasing.

It's sore and she's aching already, and it feels more real to her than the softness he had experimented with earlier.

Maybe it's because this is who he is- rough, unpractised, impatient, fast. It calms her down, because maybe it's who she is as well.

She's panting by the time he finishes with his fingers, yelping when he bites down on her nipple, sending a wave of fire through to the very roots of her hair; moaning when he stops biting and starts suckling, and she's no longer embarrassed because she knows she's doing it for a good cause.

It occurs to Hermione that Malfoy is being forced into this, just like she is, and that it's all Voldemort's fault, anyway.

Hermione closes her eyes and revels in the sensations, pushing every other thought from her mind until all she feels are his ministrations on her body. Why hate it now, when he's suffering just like she is?

Malfoy never lifts his head when he runs a hand along her waist to the apex of her thighs. There's no longer a need for teasing, or slow movements.

His hand finds her centre easily, rubbing against her clit in steady, hard circles.

Hermione lets out a high mewl, grabbing at the sheets, curling her toes, and Merlin, she thinks, it's like she's falling off the bed and onto the ceiling.

Malfoy inserts a finger inside her, suddenly, and her eyes pop open. The foreign invasion stings, and for a moment her delirium is forgotten in annoyance.

"Do you have to be so rough?" she groans, pushing at his chest.

Malfoy's shirt is already sticky with sweat. She peels it off him, wordlessly, scooting back against the pillows when he's free of the material.

"Relax," he finally says, pushing another finger inside. "It'll feel better in a moment."

But he's softer with her now, at least as soft as Malfoy can be. Her eyes drift shut again and soon the burning becomes sort of, almost, _nice_. Maybe even pleasurable, she decides, arching against his hand.

Malfoy bends down to suckle at her neck, pressing the palm of his hand flat against her mound as he drives his fingers deeper inside of her.

Hermione's grip unfolds in the sheets and she slides her arms around his torso, gripping his shoulders and digging her nails into his skin. She feels the muscles in his back ripple under her touch.

Hermione smiles slightly, the heat in her core increasing. She's having the same effect on him, she can feel it.

"Oh!" her eyes shoot open to stare at the canopy of the bed, but all she sees are blurred colours. Malfoy bites into her neck and the pain is so immeasurably sexual she throws her head back to give him more space. She can practically feel him smirking against her skin, the bastard.

"You're almost there," he states, releasing her skin with a wet _pop! _

"How do you know?" she counters. He lifts his head so that they're eye to eye.

"I can feel it." Malfoy curls his fingers inside of her and rubs against a special spot. Hermione digs into his back harder. "You're getting tighter," he explains.

And damn it but he's right, she thinks. Whatever is building inside of her is about to erupt at the pressure of a volcano, dormant for years. It doesn't even matter that it's Malfoy's fingers inside of her, Malfoy who's plunging into her so hard she's almost hitting the headboard. All she can think about is how she wants more. More from Malfoy, more _of _Malfoy; and Merlin, but if he continues to look at her like that she's going to combust, and- and suddenly he's pulled his fingers out of her, removed his hand from her skin, and the feeling deflates like a popped balloon.

She shifts uncomfortably as a feeling of unease and frustration takes hold of her insides.

"What are you-"

"You're ready now."

She looks down to where he's suddenly undoing the button on his pants, pulling the zipper down, and shimmying out of them. Oh.

Hermione lies still in awkward awe as he stands up and steps out of his boxers. She glances away and blushes. It's not as if she's never seen a man naked before.

Going on the run with two boys and one tent… well, Hermione has seen her fair amount of naked bodies, thank you very much.

But this, Malfoy, it's different. Because Harry and Ron are like brothers and Malfoy is the furthest thing from family to her. And sure she's seen a naked man before, but she's never been naked _with _a naked man before.

She mentally slaps herself then. This is not the time to shy out of the arrangement, she goads herself. So what if Malfoy's naked? So what if he's now sitting on the bed looking at her blushing like some naïve, pristine nun.

Hermione finds his eyes and locks onto them, the heat in them matching his own.

Malfoy brushes a curl from her forehead. "Are you ready?"

"Are you?" she counteracts, pulling his shoulders until their chests are touching.

Malfoy nods. His breathing is uneven, laboured. Hermione leans towards him but stops abruptly.

_I won't kiss you…_

She pauses, gauging his reaction.

Malfoy shrugs his shoulders, as if to say 'why not?' and meets her half way, their lips smashing together for the first time.

That's when he enters her.

Hermione jerks in sudden pain, but Malfoy grabs her arms and holds her down, keeping their lips together.

She yells all kinds of insults into his mouth, but Malfoy stays still above her, only moving to rest his weight onto his elbows.

Finally the burning ceases, and although it's still uncomfortable and unfamiliar, Hermione calms down, returning his kiss.

A part of her, the stubborn, defiant part, still hates him. But Hermione knows deep down he's just as much a victim as she is. And maybe she can understand why he has to do this. Because wouldn't she do the same thing, if she were in his place?

Malfoy rocks against her in slow movements, testing the feeling.

"Merlin, you're tight," he hisses, breaking the kiss.

Hermione smiles in her small victory, absently forgetting the pain of her inexperience and returning his thrusts.

"It's okay," she hooks her legs around his hips and Malfoy grips her thighs, the new position sending him deeper inside of her.

Hermione moans, meeting his pace. It's messy and unpractised, the movements are jerky and uncontrolled, but she thinks it's the best sex she could ever hope for, under the circumstances, and when he sighs her name- Hermione- against the nape of her neck, a part of her is willing to forgive him.

They grind against each other, twisting the duvet underneath them into a heap of satin; it's Hermione's turn to bite into his neck. She tastes the salty tang of his sweat, the metallic sting of his blood when she bites down too hard.

Malfoy enjoys it though, driving into her harder. She's going to go up in flames any minute now, she can feel it.

"I'm almost there!" She clutches at his hair, locks her ankles in place. Malfoy shivers against her.

He sneaks a hand down between her legs again and finds her weakness. Within seconds she's writhing harder, reaching behind her to grip the headboard with white hands, trying to anchor herself in case she actually does fall off the bed.

"Dra-"

"You're there, Hermione," he whispers into her ear, pressing into her harder. "Come for me, that's a good girl."

It's like a dam wall breaking, and all the water flows out at such a high speed it's just waves upon waves of pleasure, curling around her body and liquidizing her bones.

Hermione drops down onto the bed, satiated and tired. Everywhere is tingling and she embraces the feeling.

Malfoy slumps against her then, and she realizes he's found the same release she has.

Hermione threads a hand through his hair, stroking it back in place.

Draco rolls off her and onto his back. They lay staring at the four poster canopy for a long time- both catching their breath and trying to find something to say that doesn't feel so totally false.

"So…" she says, awkwardly.

He turns his head slightly to look at her. "So it's done." He looks at the ceiling again. "I'll have to ask around for Weasley, maybe use a bit of blackmail to get some information."

Hermione jerks upright, flabbergasted. "Are you seriously going to talk about business after _that_?"

"That _was _business… wasn't it, Granger?"

She crawls underneath the sheets and faces the window, puts her back to him and curls into a ball. "Yes, but that doesn't give you permission to ruin it."

He tries to tuck the blanket around her but Hermione shrugs him off.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Hmm,"

"Why did you run?" she whispers, hugging a pillow to her chest.

"Run from where?"

"You know… After Dumbledore, why did you run? He could have helped you."

"Could he have helped my mother?" he replies, stonily.

"Could you?"

"I had to try…"

She sighs. Look where it's gotten you. She doesn't say it. Hermione may be pragmatic, but she's not going to touch on a sensitive subject like that.

"I didn't think you'd enjoy it."

Hermione glares at the wall. "I didn't choose to, you know. Maybe if you'd thrown me around, called me names, I might have hated it."

"So you enjoyed it because I was gentle?"

"I enjoyed it," she explains, "because I realized you had just as much choice in it as I did, and that it might make you feel better if I didn't kick and scream and call you a rapist."

Draco snorts. "I did it for myself. Doesn't that bother you?"

"Not really. I know what it's like to have to fight for survival, Malfoy. And, to be honest, I forgive you- at least, I forgive what you did tonight. Because I know you didn't consent to it either." Hermione pulls the blanket up to her chin. "It's not your fault, Malfoy, its Voldemort's. He's the rapist, not you. You didn't choose to do this, he made you do it."

"That doesn't make it okay, Granger."

"No, it doesn't. But it makes it understandable. And hey, under different circumstances I'd probably enjoy it as well."

Draco doesn't reply, and after a few minutes of dead quiet, she turns around to make sure he's still breathing.

He's eyes are closed, and the familiar sneer on his face is replaced by a peaceful expression.

There's a cracking noise outside, and soon she's listening to the rain pelt against the window while Draco sleeps next to her.

Hermione's prepared for tomorrow. She's prepared to be tortured, to die. But if she somehow makes it out of here alive- she's not going to watch Draco run away again. She _won't _let him run away again.

The rain comes down harder as her eyes drift shut.


End file.
